


Mornings Like These

by Ivy_in_the_Garden



Series: Like a Line of Light [3]
Category: Cain Saga and Godchild
Genre: Chronic Illness, Gratuitous comfort, Homoeroticism, Hurt/Comfort, Period Typical Attitudes, Sexual Content, Sibling Bonding, That veterinarian life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-03-07 15:41:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18876175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivy_in_the_Garden/pseuds/Ivy_in_the_Garden
Summary: The idle, late days of summer.Now a serial, again. Updates every three weeks.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Syri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syri/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fanfic will probably make more sense if you've read the two before it. There's a fair bit of reincarnation that might make this fanfic incomprehensible--or at least unintentionally funny.

> _Jezabel_

_Somewhere in the open air, he is there._

_Again_.

_And the meadow is sweet and empty, strands of Queen Anne's Lace nodding among the white clover and bluebells._

It's morning, or at least, the pale stirring of morning peeking past the curtains like a nursemaid. 

Cassian sighs beside me, nudging my hand with his nose. ( _Not that dream again?_ )

I try to blink away the emptiness in my chest. _Father._ My hand tightens on the cornflour-blue quilt, my limbs still heavy and warm from sleep. "What else? Who else would be there?" 

Cassian tilts his head. ( _Not going to go back to sleep then?_ )

I shake my head and summoning my strength, throw the covers back to the foot of the bed. As I wait a moment to prevent the light-headedness that comes if I move too hastily, the window catches my eye: the orange chest of a robin. 

( _Looks like everyone's awake._ )

Lumbering out of bed, Cassian helpfully fetches the birdseed from its place in the corner, and I swing the window open to let in the stream of guests, faithfully congregating outside to Neil's quiet displeasure. He'd never say anything, but I've already heard talk of repainting my side of the manor exterior due to the bird excreta. A pair of chukar partridges nest nearby, watching me. I refill the porcelain dish on my outdoor windowsill, covering up its painted marigolds and morning glory with the tumble of sunflower and millet seeds, and let the birds eat their fill. They snap the hull of the seeds as they gossip amongst themselves, bits of broken shell littering the dish. 

I sit on the edge of the bed, the silk of my dressing gown sliding against my skin in the cold, clean breeze.

Cassian sits beside me. ( _Ready for breakfast?_ ) 

"I still have the letter to send off," I say, not taking my eyes off the birds. "And then the _—_ "

A knock at the door. Anderson, the new underbutler. Thirty, thin, and vaguely paternal. Cain insisted on sitting in during the hiring interview, on the grounds that in two years it would be his responsibility, and so I suppose I have Cain to thank for this latest intrusion into my life. 

I wave him away when he tries to tacitly uncover if I feel up to taking breakfast downstairs. "I'm not an invalid," I tell him, as he pulls the rest of the heavy curtains open for the day, suddenly not sure why I must justify myself _to the help_. 

Meeting Neil downstairs is no less an irritating ordeal.

He's perusing the morning's mail, but as I pass by, he carefully tilts the letter away from me so that I cannot glimpse its contents. So, it must be about me. Again. How charming. 

"You're a bit pale," he says to distract me from the letter. "Are you sure you don't want a lie-down?"

 _You're a bit old. Are you sure you don't want a coffin?_ I almost retort back, but instead I pull out a chair at the table _—_ with its _fresh, white_   linen _—_ for Cassian to lumber onto, and make my way to the breakfast table. I can imagine Neil's grimace of distaste, worry, and exasperation. Good. He mustn't think Cain is the only one around here who can be impetuous.  

To his eternal credit, Garette does not even blink at the sight of Cassian sitting at the table, tail thumping at the chair back. I suppose the prestige _—_ and notoriety _—_ of being the new head butler for the Hargreaves supersedes all.

I try some of the vegetable kedgeree: I've noticed that since my first bout of illness, it's become a staple at the breakfast table. Neil's work, again. Still, it's not unpleasant to have an option at the table that's not eggs, rolls, or whichever fruits the cook feels is suitable. 

The brief glance Neil gives my plate when I return makes me want to shatter it against the floor: God, am I tired of constant surveillance! But instead, I sit next to Cassian, who has stayed on the chair, quite politely. Cassian nudges me, prompting me to start breakfast. 

I sigh. 

But it's hard to be cross with him. 

Neil looks as though he wants to say something, but relents for now, penning his response to whatever slander is befalling the _great and noble_ house of Hargreaves this week. Every so often, he stops to take a bit more of his tea, weary. I'm not sorry for anything, but i don't make any more of a fuss this time. The kedgeree is lightly spiced and warm, and I survey the latest edition of the _Times_ , flipping ahead to see if my letter has been printed. 

I read it with more than a faint note of satisfaction.

"It was quite a letter," Neil says, vaguely amused, his voice tinged with something else I cannot quite name. A note of pride, perhaps? How ridiculous! 

I give him a smug look. "I haven't the slightest idea what you're going on about." Already I'm planning my next letter, as I help myself to some tea. 

Neil shuffles his papers, turning to the next order of business, whatever that may be. Again, the flash of the letter opener through the thin envelope. He peels out another letter, more interested in this one than the last. He frowns slightly, as he smooths the letter flat, hesitating. 

"Are you still feeling faint?" he says, not unkindly. 

I shake my head.

Cassian tilts his head. ( _Really?_ )

I give Cassian my best stare. "Really."

Neil seems to take note of this. "Why don't you stay another day here? Build up your strength." He pauses in thought. "The animals will need you to be at your best."

I sigh, outnumbered again today.

"Besides," he says, "I must admit my motives for keeping you here are not entirely unselfish."

A chill goes through me, and I stiffen in horror. What? What could he mean? Surely not...

Neil notices my sudden withdrawal, unconsciously stretching a hand towards me. "What I mean, is that the wallpaper samples for the guest room have arrived, and if I ask Cain's opinion, the whole house will be in black." Concern lines his eyes, as if he's realized he's frightened me.

"Of course," I says nonchalantly, trying to stifle the remnants of fear.  

"Perhaps after you have a rest," he replies. "Or perhaps you'd like an open carriage ride? It'll be quite warm with a blanket."

Cassian nudges me. ( _It'll sort out your nerves._ ) 

The moment is broken by the swing of the doors _—_ Cain, freshly awake now. His hair gently rumpled from sleep. 

"You do know you're the only one in the house who's allowed to sleep in, right?" he says to me, immediately going over to the the table on which today's breakfast options have been laid out. 

Cain slides into his seat at the breakfast table, all haughty grace, his plate abundant. He brushes away a few strands of loose hair, and I note Neil's tense appraisal of his appearance: I suspect he will be asked to have his hair cut soon. 

I resume my newest letter to the editor, smoothing out the paper as if that will restore my thoughts. "You too could enjoy an early morning if you kept a decent hour."

Cain sighs incredulously and then returns to the table. He selects a few items and on his way back to his seat, he places the plate in front of me, on top of the letter. I stare up at him. 

"For your grudge against the editor of _The Times,_ " he says cheerfully. 

"It's not a grudge," I correct. "He's just wrong."

"All the time?" 

I pause, frustrated at myself for being caught so easily but also unwilling to admit it, glaring at the wall. "Yes." 

He smirks, as he begins to open his own mail over a hearty plate of boiled eggs, fruit, and deviled kidneys. He begins to unwraps a parcel; Neil stiffens, expecting another delivery of poisons, but instead, the coarse, brown paper falls away to reveal a handsome book. 

Neil relaxes. 

Then Cain peels the cover away: tiny wooden drawers line one side, while on the other, there is only a sketching of two skeletons over a Latin inscription. _Statutum est hominibus semel mori._

"It's a hidden compartment," Cain explains with an air of feigned nonchalance. "For poisons."

I try not to smirk over my teacup.   

* * *

Cain draws me away later with the promise of a new animal sighting near the easternmost folly. So, together with a picnic-basket, we set out, against Neil's worries. Despite it being summer, the day is soft and mild: the breeze returns to ruffle Cain's hair against his neck. He's left his coat behind at the house, and leaving only his shirt with its sleeves rolled past his forearms and his matching tan vest and trousers. I suppose Neil talked some sense into him: one can't wear all black in summer.

I wonder what Riff would think of it all.

The farther we go from the house, the more trees gather around us. It's not the dense, moss-eaten forest of my childhood, but nonetheless pleasant all the same. Eventually we come to a small pond, secluded, the dappled shade breaking up the smooth, shiny surface. 

Cain sighs by the pond, still looking for his mystery animal. 

Cassian shrugs himself into the water, effortlessly, splashing both of us, and the note of surprise on Cain's face makes me grin. He pulls off his vest and trousers, though still covering his back, sets aside his shoes and socks, and slides in the water. 

I sit down by the edge, running my fingers along the warmed soil.

"Come on," Cain says. 

"I think I'll stay up here," I reply. 

Cain smirks. "Afraid of the water?" he says, while treading water with all the ease and familiarity of one who has snuck out here many times. 

"Certainly not!" I retort, and Cain climbs out of the water, his shirt thin and almost translucent from the damp. I move to unbutton my vest _—_ a darker beige than Cain's, embroidered with delicate green vines, one of Neil's selections. I set it next to his, and then follow his guide. Though I feel quite ludicrous in only my shirt, Cain grabs my hand and drags me into the water, laughing when the sudden coolness of the water shocks me. 

He breathes deeply and dives underwater, re-emerging with his hair plastered to the nape of his neck _—_ a grinning water sprite. He splashes me, and annoyed, I splash him back. Cassian circles us, paddling away, keeping his head above water and an eye on us.

"For the future Earl of Cornwall," I sputter, "you are certainly not acting as such."

I'm acutely aware that I've pinned him against the edge of the pond. His lips are parted, half in amusement, half in tenderness. Droplets swim down his face, collecting along his tendons, his veins strumming with life. Through the water, I can feel the stirrings of his body, and something twists in my throat. 

He's not a boy anymore. Time has worn away his boyish face, and left it with something that may, in time, become Father's, but perhaps the lines will fall differently, in a small way, and that way we will know that not every path leads back to Father, to the rich, choking heaviness of tobacco smoke and thread-thin Bible pages. 

Then, grinning, he nudges me aside with the light brush of a hand against my arm and slips away.

* * *

>   _Cain_

Warm from the day, I settle into the cool pillows, pleasantly exhausted from the swim. My limbs are weightless, and I miss the days Riff would carry me back to the castle, how I'd tease him from the pond, splashing at his calm, reserved countenance.  

I tug at Jezabel's shirt, slightly rough from being sunlight-dried as he wore it. “Have a lie down,” I say. “Unless you want both of us at Anderson's mercy when we eventually fall ill from exhaustion.” 

I help him settle into the bed, brushing away his hair from his face as he lies down to face me, vaguely amused. I tuck one of the extra blankets around his form, careful to avoid any contact, and pull it over his shoulders. “There,” I say. 

He curls into the blanket, closing his eyes for a moment, still in his shirt and trousers. A robin digs in the soil, muttering to its friends nearby. “It’s only the afternoon,” he mumbles, and I hear the unspoken question.

I brush his shoulder gently. “A rest can’t hurt.” 

He opens his eyes, still weary and bleary-eyed. “You’re as insufferable as always.”

“Well, you’re strong enough to complain, so you can’t be dying just yet.” 

He rolls his eyes at me. I smirk back. 

He turns onto his back to look at the patterned wooden panels in the ceiling. "You just don't want to deal with being helpless," Jezabel replies, staring at the ceiling. "You'd rather not be at anyone's mercy, so you'll make me just as helpless to have something to lord over."

I sigh. "It's not like that. You'll run yourself into an early grave like this. It's just a rest." I pause, sensing his rebuttal. "This isn't Delilah."

He means to say something back, but instead loses himself in some strange reminiscence. "No, it's not," he says finally, a little melancholy in his voice. At least in Delilah there was a purpose, albeit one based on graverobbing and stitching together corpses. 

“I hope you’re not about to get sentimental on me,” I say. “Because I’d rather listen to Uncle Neil’s latest recommendations for wives.” 

He exhales, exasperated. "You're too young for all that."

"Tell Uncle Neil that." I curl in closer. "The last one he tried to push on me _—_ "

"Luella," Jezabel adds, and I'm struck by his memory of this. "Daughter of Baron Carltone. Nimble embroiderer and keeper of Arabian horses." 

"You would remember the horse part," I say. "She let me know at the party that she didn't mind if I wasn't interested, only that she was very keen to marry into the Hargreaves family."

Jezabel shakes his head at the implication. "Oh, certainly not."

"She's quite a learned scholar," I tease. "I daresay you two could have conversations about animal welfare well into the night."

Jezabel sighs. 

"And she has quite a charming figure. Lovely chestnut hair, grey eyes." Propped on my elbows, head in my hands, I revel in his discomfort, like a brother ought to. "Very well, then. Do tell me what you fancy in a woman, and I'll pass the information on to Uncle Neil so that he can at least leave me be for the time being."

 Jezabel is oddly silent on the matter, and I detect a slight blush.

"Do tell," I insist.

"One must have some secrets," he replies mysteriously, if abruptly.

I throw my hands up in faux exasperation. "Oh fine, I won't tell Uncle Neil then." 

"It's not that," he says to the wall.

"Do you like blondes, then? Hair the color of corn silk and all that rubbish?"

"No," he says delicately.

"Dark-haired beauties with wild tempers? Auburn writers? Tell me, I'm dying to know."

He thinks a bit on it. "Then you'll just have to die."

"But surely, surely there must be some woman _—_ "

He shakes his head. 

"Well," I say, not sure what to do with this revelation. 

"It's for the best," Jezabel says lightly. "Less complicated for the family this way." A note of bitterness creeps into his voice. 

"What about that handsome lad around here sometimes, then?" I smirk, thinking of the veterinarian who stops by periodically to help Jezabel with the animals.  "He'd be about your age, broad shoulders..."

Jezabel rolls his eyes again. "I see you finally found your calling as matchmaker."

I mean to say something witty, but what comes out is a softer, "I don't want you to feel left out."

"It's hardly a loss." Jezabel wrinkles his nose in distaste, and I laugh at his squeamishness. "I don't want to spend my life at someone else's mercy. Shouldn't you worry about being unhappy with someone for the rest of your life?"

"Shouldn't you worry about being lonely?"

He pauses. "Not here. I'm never cold here."

"Even without a love like Jonathan and David?"

"I think I've had quite enough of love," he says flatly, and I drop the matter at that, not wanting to hear about Father.  

He turns away from me, and I brush away a strand of hair from his ear. He exhales, settling deeper into the covers. I reach for his hand, sensing an apprehension from the tension in his shoulders. And this moment of flushed warmth and soft exhales, cool sheets and little murmurs, is ours alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fanfic came about through talks with Syri: he talked about Neil and Jezabel getting along and gradually accepting each other, as well as Cain and Jezabel talking about their sexuality in the reserved way that Victorian gentlemen might, and I realized I wanted that in my life. He wrote an amazing fanfic called "Thunderstuck," which you can read on this site, and this is my response to it. 
> 
> In case anyone is still following the tangled AU timeline, this is about 1900.
> 
> I still have a couple ideas floating around from the AU, mostly about Jezabel's veterinary endeavors. Maybe I'll write them down at some point. Maybe. The lads need some peace and gentleness in their lives after Alexis. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments are loved. Much love to the Godchild fandom.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE!!!!

> _Cain_

Mary is furiously embroidering on a piece of pale blue cotton next to me, Uncle Neil's vain attempt to raise her to be the proper countess she'll never be. Her stitches are rushed and crooked. After a few months of waving around the newest edition of the fashion magazines, she's finally persuaded Uncle Neil to change out her wardrobe of plush, dark fabrics for pale cream cotton and ribbons. Her dress today is one of off-white cotton, with a mauve sash tied around her waist that matches the one in her hair. 

At fifteen, she's already too strong-willed for him. 

(Or maybe he's hoping that she'll be the one to satisfy the family's wish to appear normal. I did see yesterday's letter to Uncle Neil going on about how Jezabel's work as a veterinarian is highly disreputable and if Uncle Neil continues to indulge him, his next whim will be to take in washing. I couldn't help laughing at that part. I doubt that will come to pass...)

At the table, Jezabel and Uncle Neil are going over the wallpaper samples sent up from London. They've amassed several piles between the two of them—multicolored scraps, almost like a quilt upon the pale, starched cotton of the tablecloth—and although I am a little cross at my decision to have the Lady Charlotte Room simply wallpapered black and be done with it, it's amusing to watch them pick through the samples like particularly discerning sparrows. 

Uncle Neil moves a mauve sample, embossed with a bouquet of straight-backed lilacs and drooping bellflowers, from a pile. "What about this one?" 

Jezabel pauses thoughtfully over his teacup. He shakes his head. "Too dark." He lays a chamomile-yellow one over it, as if playing a winning card.  "The room is north-facing, and needs all the light it can get."

Uncle Neil considers it. "This one will match the curtains better." 

This exchange goes on for a little, and the dog dozes in the rare sunshine on the floor. Our peace is interrupted by the appearance of Anderson, announcing the arrival of a guest in the parlor. 

"Ah, your gentleman caller is here," I say cheerfully to Jezabel.  

Uncle Neil blanches, no doubt anticipating many letters from the family on this. "Cain, you really mustn't say things like that."

Mary's eyes dart between us, eager for any gossip, her embroidery needle slackened. "Is it true?"

"Alan is only my tutor," Jezabel replies, rising from the table. "We're going to go check on some farm animals nearby." 

"But you don't need a tutor," I say, prying as only a brother can.

Jezabel pauses, considering the trap of my praise. "No, I don't, but the college seems to think otherwise."

 "So the matter is settled," Uncle Neil says firmly. "And Cain will be mindful of it in the future."

I insist on accompanying Jezabel out to the parlor, citing my brotherly concern, but mostly to confirm my suspicions—and true enough, there he is, the veterinarian I've glimpsed around here. He rises to his feet at my presence, but Jezabel shakes his head.

"Don't give him ideas," Jezabel tells him. "Or he'll start getting even more insufferable."

"Have a good trip, dearest brother," I add, unable to contain my glee at this revelation. 

Jezabel rolls his eyes at me as they leave.

* * *

>   _Jezabel_

_"_ You're going to think me quite foolish," Alan starts, as we walk up to one of the nearby cottages on Hargreaves land. "but I hadn't the slightest idea Earl Cain Hargreaves was your brother."

"Lord Hargreaves," I correct, ignoring the slight jarring sensation in my chest at _Earl Hargreaves_. "He won't inherit until next year."

He shakes his head in disbelief. "Lord Hargreaves," he repeats. "He was in the papers today for solving the murder over at Lord Merriton's."

"I know. He's received a stern telling off from it from his guardian, which means he's sure to do it again." We stop at the cottage door, and I pause, frowning. "Who did you think I was, if not his brother?"

"His tutor, I suppose," Alan says. 

 _Of course._ His words sting more than they should. I knock on the door decisively, anything to end the conversation at how dissimilar I am, despite having the same blood running through my veins. The farmer appears a few moments later, his shirt sleeves rolled up, rubbing a shoulder: he's around fifty and not much taller than me. 

"Good day. I'm Alan Claerke from the London Royal Veterinary College, and this is my assistant, Doctor Disraeli. We're here because we received a reques—"

"Doctor?" the tenant repeats, skeptical.

"Yes," Alan replies. 

The farmer points a gnarled finger at him. "But you're not a doctor."

"Not for people, I'm afraid."

"But he is." The farmer peers at me, turning his attention to me. "What made you give up doctoring? You kill a man doctoring?"

"I assure you my medical record is impeccable," I reply smoothly, in the same voice I used to reserve for particularly trying patients. Dr. Sweeney, however, is wanted by Scotland Yard for three counts of murder and one count of illegal animal importation. I suppose they finally realized that those ocular parasites weren't native to England after all. Quite frankly, it took them long enough...

"But you'd give up a posh London life for birthing animals and treating fevers?" 

"Yes," I reply, still keeping up the cordial mask, although I curl my fingers tightly and then unfurl them to resist the urge to choke the life out of this obstinate farmer. The scalpel is, infuriating, still in the bag, and not in my pocket, where it belongs. 

"Now if you could just show us to the barn," Alan adds. "We'd be quite happy to take a look at your sheep."

Sheep. I glance at Alan. _You didn't say it would be sheep_ , I almost say, but that would invite questions and I loathe questions.

The farmer steps back. "One of the lambs is standing funny."

Alan nods, and we follow him out to the weathered yet clean barn. My blood stills when I see the lamb, milk-white and barely a newborn, hunched up like an angry cat. She's not more than a week old; late summer and autumn lambing are unusual but not unheard of. And yet, I don't need to feel her heartbeat to know that it will be rapid.

"White Muscle Disease," I say. 

A heaviness falls over the room. White Muscle Disease is considered typically fatal.

"Let me confirm," Alan says, reaching for the stethoscope. She nuzzles against his arm, and I am sickened by the sight. A few moments pass before Alan nods, confirming my diagnosis. 

The farmer pauses. "She'll have to be put down then," he says, resigned. 

"No," I say a little more forcefully. "There're must be—there hasn't to be—"  I pace the barn, my chest heaving as I try to remember everything I've read, everything I've done. White Muscle Disease is linked to the quality of feed; something's missing, something typically found in animal feed. I glance at the troughs: hay and grains, possibly a mix of oats for the ewes. I walk out inside to the field; Alan follows me, now slightly alarmed. 

I rip up a handful of the grasses in the pasture, sorting through them, dirt flecking my hands: soft brome, a bit of meadow foxglove. 

_What is it? What is missing? Think!_

"We don't want her to suffer," Alan says, trying to reassure me. He puts his hands on my shoulders, squeezing them lightly. "They can't all be saved. It's just Mother Nature's way."

"That is so easy to say when it's not your life," I snap back. And then it comes to me what is missing here. It's not the plants but the soil. The soil must be deficient. "Selenium," I say slowly. "She needs selenium."

Alan blinks at this solution. "I don't know how to isolate that."

"You don't need to." I turn to the farmer, unsteady but determined not to let it show. "I'm going to prepare a special paste for her. You need to administer it precisely as I tell you to, or you will kill her." I'll get the seeds from the castle. The majority of the sunflowers have gone to seed now, and there should be more than enough to make a paste from. I give him directions on how often she needs to eat it, and how much, adjusting for her body weight. "And I shall send the directions again with the paste." 

And yet, this does not feel like a triumph of the intellect—another riddle solved—as it does with human patients. Rather, there is a gnawing fear that even this solution will not be enough.

With that Alan wraps up the visit, handling all the tedious arrangements, while I stare at the garish quilt of red and yellow and green hanging over the back of the rough kitchen chair, trying to detach myself from my surroundings long enough to not have a fit from all the pressure and terror in front of darling Cain's _precious tenants_. Terror that I might have cost an animal its life by leaving its care to someone else—that even now, I might have been too late and the treatment won't work. 

Alan tries to talk to me on the way back, but nothing registers save for the strange way the grasses tug at my legs along the paths, dragging me back. She'll die in his care. I need to take her. I'm the only one who can save her. What does a farmer know anyway? He was ready to kill her if that would have been the most efficient path. And yet, what am I saving her for? The inevitable butcher's knife when she grows too old?

"Jezabel," Alan says quietly, and I realize that we've come back to the castle somehow. 

"I must be tired from it all," I reply as nonchalantly as I can feign. "Do let me know when you require my presence again." And I slip away from him, back into the coldness of the castle, leaving him to the care of the servants.

Time loosens. One moment I'm in the hall, and the next at the smooth covers of my bed, the window left ajar for the sea breeze to air the room out. I close the door against the insufferably cheerful talk in the parlor. The covers on the pillows are as white as the lamb's wool. _"It's the laws of Nature, Jezabel. Animals are there to be eaten,"_ Father says at my bedside, the black cross hanging from his hand, as if he had never truly died. 

I rip the pillows from the bed and throw them aside.  _"_ One lands with a terrible force near the nightstand, shaking the lamp—which only rolls onto its side and falls onto the floor. " _All you can do is remember your sin by this cross."_ I have the overwhelming urge to vomit until I am finally clean from my sin again—I rip blankets from the bed as well in a terrible rage and terror. I want to destroy this entire room—but it won't be enough, it will never be enough—nothing can ever match this rage—and the room looks the same as it did when Snark died, except that that room was different—the light was different, but I am the same, I am the same—and she'll die, another innocent will die—if not now, then years later from the butcher's knife, and for what?

I slump down at the foot of the bed, panting. 

And then I curl up and cry in front of the ruin I have created.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rather than make a new chapter, I decided to add on to this one. This is partially based on some of Syri's headcanons. 
> 
> I don't think this will be more than a chapter or two, but if you've been following along, you probably already know my estimates of fanfic length are optimistic. But it will probably not wind up being 88k again. ...Probably. Unless you want the Godchild mashup of every vet drama ever. ;) In which case, someone needs to take away my keyboard. And I am so, so sorry if you're following the other fanfic. I keep meaning to update that one!!!


	3. Chapter 3

> _Jezabel_

 Having thoroughly given into my fit, I find only shame in the wretchedness of my room now. I suppose I should try to straighten it before any of the servants—or God forbid, Neil—show up, but I cannot bring myself to do anything, utterly drained as I am. There's a frustrating throb in my head, and I have a terrible urge to grab one of the posts and smash the hideous throbbing quiet—it would solve a great many problems—but I don't have the energy. 

I'm lying beside the bed as I used to when I was very small and would pray to God every night to let me see Father, to let me know that he was safe, with my legs on the floor and my arms on the bed.

Except that there's no one left to pray to. 

A knock at the door.

God, why? Why does this infernal place have so many goddamned nosy people living in it? That was the one virtue of Delilah; at least, I had my space.

"Cain," I warn, in no mood to deal with him right now, but as I turn to see, it's only Anderson. I don't suppose he's here to get me some opium from the downstairs cupboard. Still, one can hope. Feeling nothing seems very appealing right now.

"It's only me, doctor," he replies, perfectly calm, as if he did not just walk into the aftermath of a fit. Without another word, he sets to tidying the room, setting the cushions back on the chairs, back on the bed next to me. The blankets follow, placed in a heap besides me.

 _Perfect._ I suppose Neil really hired him to be my nursemaid. 

 "Lord Hargreaves wanted to let you know that he's expecting you at dinner tonight," he says, matter-of-factly.

"We can't all get what we want," I reply far too haughtily for someone partially lying on the floor. "I have other matters to attend to." I still have the vitamin to synthesize, still have to figure out the mechanics of it all. 

Anderson says nothing, and instead goes over to my wardrobe; with the carefully plain face of one in service, he begins to pick through my clothes, looking for the evening wear. "Lord Hargreaves says that you must be present for your guest."

"My guest?" I repeat, wariness coming over me. I haven't invited anyone over.

"Mr. Claerke."

Oh, that. I suppose Neil didn't want to send him away so late in the evening. Christ. I pull myself off the floor, although the heaviness of it all—the heaviness of my body—begs me to stay just a little longer near the softness of the blanket. 

Anderson mistakes my hesitation for something else, perhaps that strange helplessness of the aristocracy. "Would you like me to dress you?"

Oh, certainly not. 

I shake my head, before gathering up Anderson's selections. He's still there, effortlessly calm. I wonder what he'll say downstairs, away from Neil and the others, probably about how _mad_ I am and what a _terrible, arduous burden_ it all is, and how _fortunate_ I am to live in a time when they simply don't just _shut me up in an attic,_ _god rest poor Lady Hargreaves's soul, the poor dear._  

It's all disgusting.

 _Why are you still here? Do you want more of a show?_   I almost say, but instead I go to dress behind the folding screen, debating on whether I should seduce him, just because I can. I fiddle with the buttons along the front, idly wondering at what stage of undress would be the most enticing, but by the time I have considered all my options, I am almost fully dressed, except for the cuffs. 

I emerge from the folding screen and offer my wrist to him, wordlessly; equally as quiet, he fastens the cuff. Then the other. He smooths down the lapel of the coat with a practiced hand, and we are so close now that I can see the shadow of stubble on his cheeks, the way his right eyelid endearingly droops slightly. His brown eyes surveying my body—or rather, the way the clothes cling to and fall away from it.   

"Do you have any more need of me?" he says, quietly.

I consider, God help me, I consider how pleasant it would be to turn that paternal gaze into a lustful one, how there is just enough time for me to pin him to the wall and open his mouth with mine, and perhaps his trousers too for a little fun Neil would never approve of. And if I do it carefully enough, there won't be too much mess afterwards. 

But then I catch the trust—the bizarre and _entirely misplaced_ trust that I won't act out—in the openness of his posture, not closed-off like the maids.

I swallow. "No."

And with that, he leaves me with the realization of just how foolish I've been today. 

* * *

 If Neil is surprised that I have listened to his entirely insufferable requests, he has the good sense not to press his luck. Another dinner begins, just the same as all the others. Cain tries to charm Alan and Mary with an account of his breaking no fewer than six laws to solve the murder of some horrible little baron. Or count. Or earl. God, I forget. He's just gotten to the part where he stole evidence from Scotland Yard when the platter containing today's murdered animal reaches Alan. 

"Sorry," he says to the footman. "I'm afraid I don't eat meat."

Mary perks up, halfway through helping herself to the fish dish. "Oh!" she says, a grin on her face. "Jezabel doesn't either!"

Alan glances at me, a question on his parted lips, and I really do not enjoy this sudden attention. I really should be down in Cain's makeshift laboratory, synthesizing the vitamin, instead of playing these small-minded games. 

Neil seizes this opportunity to be free of both of his least favorite topics—my existence and Cain's budding criminality, although to call it _budding_ may be more than generous at this point—and settles into a line of questioning. "So, Mr. Claerke," he begins smoothly, with a quick nod to Garette to bring up some meatless options. "I hear you're a skilled tutor at the college."

Alan nods. "I'm quite flattered to hear that. I've been a veterinarian for five years now."

_I've been a physician for far longer._

He pauses in thought. "It's not the most prestigious employment, but there's nothing better than to bring newborn animals into the world." This piques my attention; I look up from the table to catch the gentle flush that comes across his face. "I've seen it all in the animal world; granted, I'm no doctor," here he gives me a nod of recognition, "but I consider myself pretty knowledgeable."

"Any good stories?" Cain asks, with a knowing smile. 

"There was a lamb with a broken leg," Alan replies, helping himself to some of the sliced potatoes in butter. "The farmer wanted to put it down, but the little creature had so much fight left in it, that I just couldn't recommend that. I took it home with him, and set the bone.   I hand-fed it for weeks until it was strong enough to go back." He pauses, a slight smile on his face. "It grew up into a fine ram, and every time I go down to that farm, it always runs up to me."

And something stirs inside me at this terrible gentleness, nothing like what I feel for Cain, nothing like that twisting passion, nothing like what almost moved me before. This is the peace of a pale morning, ordinary and simple. But even as this comes over me, jealousy emerges that he should have such a nice life of caring for animals—no one questioning him, no one redirecting his skills for their own gains. 

I suppose that's just how it is. Some things don't change after all. 

* * *

I finally steal away when they move to the smoking room and Mary is put to bed, having no one to play cards with. No one smokes, but it's a matter of tradition, and Neil plans to hold onto as many traditions as he can manage, if only to bring some semblance of orderliness to the castle. 

It's hard, but familiar work to synthesize the vitamin from Cain's existing stock of odds and ends, but I do manage out of sheer habit. Good, this way I can just give her injections for a more precise dose. She'll recover in no time now. I brush away the gathered sweat from pouring over with the back of my hand, and turn off the gas to the Bunsen burner—the blue flame snaps out of existence, and I envy its clean end.  

I've half a mind to leave the flasks as is, but habit has me rinsing them out and setting them to dry on a garish yellow scrap that Cain wedged in the cabinets. I've lost myself to the sheer familiarity of it all that I don't hear the door open behind me.

"I thought I'd find you here," Alan says gently. "It's late, and I'm afraid your uncle will be cross with me if you're up too late." The sharp angle of the lights casts his shadow near me, elongating it.

I don't see what the matter is. It's only four in the morning. I've worked far longer and harder at Delilah. The chill of the castle curls along my exposed forearms, the sleeves rolled back long ago.

"I'll go to bed soon enough," and even as I say it, another thought comes to mind. I want to test his devotion, want to see just how far his interest goes, just to see, only to see.

But that's a lie too.

Cain has ruined me, for it's no longer so easy to lie to myself now.

I bit my lip—and watch how he swallows at this. Good. I live up to my name and play the coquette with a light hand at the buttons of my shirt. Then I cross my arms with a bashful, apologetic smile as if I've realized how transparent I'm being. But inside, I am already half bored with the whole affair and frustrated that I cannot come up with some trite line like Cain does. 

I move to retrieve my coat from the back of the chair, and I catch the way his eyes linger over my form. "I suppose you know your way back?" I say. "You're in the guest room in the west section, right?"

Alan pauses, weighing something in his mind, "Jezabel," he says, and I do not know how to feel about my name on his lips. "Jezabel, you mustn't take this the wrong way," he continues, and my heart sinks already at my foolish little games. God, if he confesses his love for Cain, I think I'll just live in the attic from now on and spend the rest of my life trying to not cast a shadow on noble, darling, precious Cain, beloved by all. 

He steps forward a little. "Cain told me that you're a confirmed bachelor."

Oh, that's not how I was expecting this to go.

I shrug, outwardly unperturbed, but I am suddenly fixated on his lips, how they move in the dim light. 

"I was quite happy in boarding school," he says abruptly. "My parents were less so, when I—I simply didn't grow out of it."  He shakes his head, glancing at the cluster of clean chemistry apparatus, before looking at me again, this time earnest. "I didn't think, I didn't dare to hope that you'd be the same as me."

He's close now, and he places his hand along the curve of my face, one finger parting my lips; the abrupt weight of his skin against mine thrills me.  "Do you want this as much as I do? If I have misread, then we will speak no more of this." He searches my face for a sign.

Something catches in my throat. "You haven't," I manage, less the blushing maiden than bemused at the prospects of having found someone with my peculiarities.

 "Just one transgression," he whispers, as if to convince himself—or me, I suppose—before stealing my breath.

And then the sweetness of desire comes over me, warming me to the pit of my black heart, and I return his advances, pressing my body against his, sighing in his ear as he moves against me, creating a sweet, maddening friction. There's a distinct lack of places to rest against in Cain's laboratory, given that it's a meager set up of cabinets, a writing desk, a plain table for experiments and a few chairs overgrown with notes and bottles of poisons.

 I want to savor his body, instead of just getting on my knees and bringing him to a quick finish, and just as I am struck by the strangeness of that thought, he seems to take note of the inadequacy of the room as well, panting softly.

And perhaps it's just as well, because the door swings open and we hurriedly disentangle ourselves. A blush comes over the pale face of a maid, risen early to tend to the room before the family awoke.  She stammers out an apology and quickly disappears to tend to another part of the castle, but the moment is over. 

"Perhaps this was not the best moment," I say, the lust quite gone now.  "I'm sure you don't want word of this to get around."

Against the sudden hurt in his eyes, I return to my room, my heart uncomfortably loud. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading so far.


	4. Chapter 4

> _Jezabel_

I don't particularly want to sleep now, even though the morning is starting to lighten around me. I sit at the edge of my bed, the covers straightened out as if there had been no fit, nor rage, nor anything at all. And then I slink into Cain's room, pressing past the heavy oak door, smooth from the many Hargreaves hands that came before. The walls stretch out in the darkness, thickly red like the inside of a heart. The curtains flutter around his four-poster bed, the thin, ivory lace a strange match for the heavy lines of the bed.  And behind the curtains, as if nestled inside the gut of an oyster, is Cain, blissfully asleep.

He turns in his sleep, the pale blankets twisting around his bare form. And under the oil painting of some long dead ancestor, all I can do is watch him inevitably move further and further away from me. Then he sighs softly and opens his eyes slightly. Spotting me, he just turns on his side. I'm vexed that he doesn't even startle now; he just exhales and pulls part of the cover aside. 

"Your room is down the hall," he half-yawns. He inhales and stretches a little, sitting up now. The cool linen collects around his waist, still bare. "You didn't have a lover's spat already?"

I shake my head.

"Well, as long as he isn't in little jars in the basement, you can work this out."

"He's not in little jars," I reply, vexed by this presumption. 

"Big jars in the basement, then," he amends, seamlessly. "I don't know what you've found down there."

"I haven't found anything at all." And in the moment, that seems painfully true. I have lost something instead. 

Cain sighs and pulls away the blankets on one side. Somewhere out there, outside the castle walls, the sea thrums against the ancient, stone-strewn shore, and the salt breeze steals into the room; Cain doesn't leave his windows open at night, so I wonder where it's coming from. I settle beside him and watch the light spread across the wallpaper, slowly like a fire, as Cain falls back asleep. Steadily, the rest of the room comes into view: the dark oak of the side-table with its hastily scribbled notes about this poison, the Tennyson volume with its calfskin bindings, the deep reds of the tapestry on the walls—something about peonies and ivy and a forlorn woman with her birdcage. A strand of ivy peaks past her windowsill, climbing inside, unfurling its stubbornly flower-less vine, Nature in all her decay.

I lie and ponder all this, until a cry breaks up the morning. I glance beside me: it's Cain. He twists uncomfortably against the blankets, going silent again. Is it a night terror? I contemplate doing nothing, not in the least because I despise his vulnerability, but I call his name once. Nothing. A few minutes pass, then he gasps and cries out again. Frustrated, I shake him more roughly than I intend. "Wake up."

And he comes to with a wide-eyed stare that he slowly blinks away as he regains his bearings. I suppose I should comfort him, but I don't know how. Everything seems quite contrived and hollow, so I lightly brush some hair away from his face in the staccato manner that people use when touching something hot. 

He watches me, confusion on his face, and then exhales, exhausted. "Was it _that_ bad?" 

 _Was it that bad that **you**  pitied me?_  

"It was interrupting my thoughts," I say abruptly, before turning over to the other side so I don't have to face him. For some damned reason, my face is warm, and so I sulk underneath the covers, resenting Cain for having made a fool of me. Again. It's his talent.

A slight pressure moves across the blankets; Cain's hand finds mine in the pale morning light.

"It was Riff, again," he says, and I do not know what to say back. Only time passes between us, in our awkwardness, before Cain strokes the back of my hand. "Try to sleep," he says softly, a note of pained resignation in his voice as he resumes his role again.  

He pulls the covers over my shoulders, and I turn to face him, taking in the tightness around his eyes. And then I reach for his face, brushing my hand against the pinpricks of stubble coming in, imagining the open razor that will glide across it in only a few more hours. 

Cain softens and combs my hair away from my neck with his fingertips, dipping underneath the printed silk ever so slightly.

It's entirely wordless, this languid exchange of ours. 

Terrible and delightful, but not about desire. Not anymore. I shrug away my dressing gown, the silk twists in the sheets; Cain hesitates a moment, turning his back to headboard so that I cannot see his scars.  And I don't know how to tell him that I do not want anyone but him to see mine, because I don't want pity or misplaced anger or to be handled as if I am made of thorns. 

"How do you manage?" I ask at last, not meaning to say anything at all. "The... scars and all that?" 

It's barely audible, but Cain hears it all the same, a strange look on his face. He glances away, biting his lip. He starts to say something but cuts himself off. Something akin to worry and pain crosses over him. "I suppose we'll just have to find out."

And for a moment, I envy the person I used to be, the person who did not care about such matters, who could go several nights without sleep, without love, without anything at all. I needed nothing, save Father—that was my true talent. 

He traces along the faded surgery scar along my torso, eternally fascinated and repulsed by it. Then he plucks my dressing gown out of the tangle of limbs and sheets, and slides it back onto me, tenderly, caressing my back through the silk as he smooths it down, tying the sash loosely around my waist. Something burns in my throat. 

"Try to sleep," he says again, not unkindly.

* * *

 I'm awakened by the soft clink of a tray against the nightstand.

Cain's voice trails through the room. "Hm, which one?" His figure is blurry through the fluttering bed curtains, the salt air even more strongly present now that a window has been thrown open by one of the servants. His fingers slip on the buttons of his waistcoat, and a vague interest registers on his face. Garrette pulls two different coats: a dark brown one to match the soft beige of his waistcoat, and the other—

"Not that one," I groan, unable to figure out how Neil has _not_ quietly gotten rid of that red-and beige-striped monstrosity.  

"Not that one, then," Cain repeats with a faint smile. "Since the most fashionable of us has now woken up."

"More so than you," I reply, propping myself up on one elbow.   

Cain finishes adjusting his cuff links. "Do tell me, on what planet does a blue shirt match with a brown waistcoat and trousers?"

I roll my eyes and bury deep into the blankets. Leave it to him to remember that! I mean to reply something about the importance of scientific discovery over the frivolities of fashion, but Garette has already returned with his selection of my clothing, and that's not something I'm keen to deal with right now. I throw the covers over my head, hoping that if I pretend to be asleep, I don't have to dodge the questions of just why I don't want to be dressed by him—or anyone, quite frankly. If Cain doesn't allow him to fully dress him, I don't see why I have to put up with it.

"Lord Hargreaves insists that you come down to breakfast for your guest," Garette says, with all the plainness of one who is not interested in debate.

"You can leave us," Cain says, dismissing him. 'We'll be down."

"Very good, milord."

Cain grimaces slightly at those words, but it goes unnoticed. And with that, we're alone again.

* * *

Breakfast is thoroughly uneventful, and my thoughts are on the lamb, besides. She nuzzles against my hand when I return to check on her. She's still not better, but I give her a dose of the extract as quickly and painlessly as I can manage. It does not work. I can feel every inch of the unyielding metal of the syringe in her skin, and I resist the urge to retch right here on the dirt floor of the barn, or better yet, into the freshly gathered, square bales of hay.

Cassian places a paw on my arm, worried. ( _Ask him to do it instead._ )

I shake my head, mindful of Neil's _darling_   _admonition_ _to think before I start talking to "the dog" in public_. Really now. At least I'm not an old man plotting other people's lives for them. 

I wash out the apparatus, dissembling it and giving it a quick rinse until I can properly sterilize it, all the while trying to ignore the delicate being at my heels, soft brown eyes gazing at me not with the hatred I so justly deserve, but an innocent apprehension, unsure of what she did to warrant that treatment. I move towards her to reassure her with a few strokes, but she backs away slightly—horror and self-revulsion twists in me.  

This is part of being a veterinarian as well, I suppose.

I offer my hand again, this time so she can inspect it and find no malice in it.

As she stretches her neck in a gesture of tenuous trust, Alan explains the basics of the protocol I have devised for her. And as the farmer considers it with a distant expression, I realize that all of this will not matter in the cold economics of agriculture: the lamb will be too much work to save, and he believes his time will be better spent elsewhere. Weak animals are killed: isn't that how it is? 

"We'll take her back," I interrupt. "She needs monitoring, which you cannot provide."

Now I have everyone's attention, as it ought to be.

"Jezabel," Alan starts, but I cut him off.

"Dr. Disraeli," I amend, straightening myself to my full height. "It is my _professional_  opinion that this is the proper course of action to take."  _And there's naught you can do to stop me._

"Well, then," Alan says, stunned. "I suppose we'll have to."

The farmer murmurs his assent, and with a touch of warmth in my face, I gather the innocent into my arms. 

"We'll have her returned when she is better," I reply, my heart trembling at the tiny muscles of her body pressed against mine: how can such a delicate being be? It is this, not the rainbow cast o'er Noah's arc, that is God's sign of forgiveness, that such sinless beings should exist. She nuzzles against my arm, then tucks her head inside the crook of it, trusting me where I deserve none.  

It's only after we are safely away from the farmhouse that I exhale the worry building inside of me. Here, she's safe; here is a reprieve. I don't have to consider my role in all of this as long as she's safe with me. Cassian plods along beside me on the well-tread, rut of a path back to the Hargreaves estate. Brambles bunch under the lightly leaved trees, while wispy, cornflower-blue anemone sway gently, their six-petaled flowers bright and open to greet us. Around its stigma are several anthers, little satellites fluffy with pollen. 

I pull some blackberries from an overgrown bush to give to her, the purple juice staining my fingers as I try to ignore just how heavy she's gotten in the short trek here. She's too delicate to walk, but she's my responsibility. Alan joins in, lasciviously eating a few, and though I roll my eyes, I grin foolishly despite myself. Then he offers me one, pressing it between my lips slowly. I accept it, relishing the delightful burst of juice and minute seeds. 

Low desire moves in me, but then I remember Cassian's presence. 

I move on from the bush, ignoring my foolish lightheadedness.  

* * *

"You cannot keep the animal inside the house," Neil says, without even glancing up from his myriad of letters, a plate of freshly baked scones, clotted cream, and a pint of raspberry jam at his elbow.  "Put it in the barn."

I clasp the lamb closer. "It will do no harm in the house."

Alan brushes against my arm. "Perhaps we'd better listen," he says softly. "I'm certain she'd be quite comfortable there too."

( _And he can meet the other animals._ ) 

 I frown, picking up the lamb with as much care as I can manage, despite the encroaching tiredness. "Perhaps..."

Relief comes over Neil's face to my surprise. "Well, take something with you," he says, pushing the plate towards us. "Just a bit to tide you over until luncheon."

I begin to protest, but Alan has other plans. "They look marvelous," he says, starting to prepare some for us, effortlessly slicing the steamy, soft scones open and letting the clotted cream sink in. He considers again and adds some of the jam as well. "Just in case." Then he wraps them up in a handkerchief, and we make our way to the barn near the castle, the little barn where I keep the animals that have come into my care; we leave the gravel paths of the estate, neatly combed over, for the muddy, winding sidepaths that burrow through the outskirts.  

Pale grey rabbits eye us as we pass through their county, pausing in their incessant feasting before returning to root through the overgrown meadows for clover and alfalfa. The sea beats out its melody against the cliffs, and salt carries through the land, sharp and ever-present. In the apple orchard, heavy with green fruit, we weigh our pockets down with apples for Lucy the goat and the horses. I set the lamb down for a moment to let her feel the sturdiness of the earth, and partially to give my arms a break. She stumbles around the trees as best she can, before bashfully returning. 

And in that moment, I forget everything, save the simple bliss of watching her stagger through the orchard, trusting and curious. She brushes against the meadow foxtail grasses, the pollen catching in her coat. Alan laughs and wipes it off her. Nearby, a turnstone frantically bathes in a puddle, while another pecks along the raised tree roots, griping to itself. We cross the estuary, circling its way to the sea, and pass a curlew, striding in the waters and whistling along as the hollow reeds kneel in the rushing breeze. Ducklings bob in the grasses, their bright black eyes considering our presence. 

Then, finally, we come to the Hargreaves' barn, now freshly painted. Lucy bleats at our arrival, much to Alan's delight. The red face of a goldfinch peers, intrigued, from the gorse, alight in its small yellow blossoms, and a few sparrows unabashedly settle on the nearby elm branches. Spikes of wandering heath crowd the fence posts, while wild strawberries softly tread, extending their runners into the pen. We carefully introduce her to the rest of the animals, and she weakly goes to lie down. Then, I take the opportunity to show Alan around. His brown eyes soften at each one, from the shy tabby that sleeps in the loft to the pale silkie chicken scratching about.

"It's like Noah's arc," Alan says in amazement, and I smirk. We settle in the barn, among the cleaned stalls and freshly hauled straw bales. He pulls me close, so close that the scent of his aftershave, some heady mix of sandalwood, reaches me quite clearly. He combs his fingers through my hair.

"I think she'll be happy here," he says at last.

"She'll have to go back," I say, unsure of what to do next. I would know what to do if this were my next victim, but now, without a plan, I feel only awkward sitting so close to him. 

"We'll deal with that when it comes," he says, his hand slipping to stroke the curve of my face. "It's a peaceful place here."

With that, I am acutely aware of my scars. I half want to acquiesce to his gentle hand, but I also do not, in fear of what I might find there. I'm not entirely sure I want to know him just yet, uncover his nakedness. After I killed Cassandra, I had a terrible urge to meet men just like him, again and again. And they can be easily found. Drunk men, lecherous men, the ones in dark, smoke-filled pubs were the easiest of all. I let them have whatever they wanted, because I would have _whatever I wanted_ soon enough: that's the only thing that made it all bearable, that their blood would eventually arc in its hot spray across the alley wall. That gasp of shock and fear, the dead weight as they crumpled to the ground, a bleeding-out mess of lust and grime. I would win in the end. 

That would make it right.

But one night, I found some aspiring, nameless poet, down on his luck, if he ever had any to begin with, whom I charmed with my knowledge of Tennyson and absinthe; I spent the whole night thinking of how he would not be missed by anyone, how proud Father would be that I carried off a successful kill, how I was doing the Lord's work by ridding his lost paradise of those that had befallen it.  We kissed in the back, away from prying eyes, the usual routine, when he stopped suddenly. 

"You're not really into this, are you?" he asked, searching my face. "I'll not be a part of this, then." 

Only the shock of it all saved him, for I would have slit his throat just for the hell of it, just to rid the world of one more filthy human. But he left me there, confused, as the mist combed through the alley, and I went back to Delilah's headquarters without another word. 

And I didn't go back out the next night. 

Or any more nights after that.

I had never considered that such things might not be simply done to one. What an odd and foolish notion, and yet, now, now that I am in the arms of someone I do not dislike, I find it fearful. What is the point of refusing, if it can simply be ignored? Does it even matter, then?   

Alan's hand finds its way to my inner thigh, which ordinarily would be pleasant, if not for the knowledge that I do not want him to see my scars, or anything else for that matter. How terribly inconvenient it's going to be to explain away his death to the college. And how disappointed Cain will be with me, and how furious Neil will be. 

I place my hand on his, my heart loud.

"What is it?" he asks, glancing up at me. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A CLIFFHANGER!! I don't think we've had one of those in a while.
> 
> In that middle section, they're talking about clothes from that promo pic from The Seal of the Red Ram, where everyone has apparently forgotten how to match clothing. God, I love the early promo art so much.
> 
> Also, thank you so much to everyone who's left comments. I do love to hear from you all. Thank you for reading so far!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part has some unsettling sexual noncon content in it, the rest should be ok to read, heeding the tags and rating, of course.

> _Jezabel_

What does it mean to have a body, to be seen and known? It's a frightening thing to be seen, to have secret liaisons for no reason other than it is delightful and horrifying to be wanted. There's something grasping in him that thinks it has found its twin in me; there is something sick and hollow in me that feeds off being desired, even still as my body slowly fades. And desires are so terribly dangerous. 

But why must everything be a fire? Is there grace in a candle, a small candle in the dark?

At the pressure of my hand, Alan searches my face, his deep brown eyes worried. Then, he recoils slightly, his mouth agape in sudden realization. "Oh," he says. "Oh, how foolish of me. You didn't want—" Fear moves across his face: just this one accusation could prove ruinous in these times. 

But he stopped.

As if it were truly that simple. And I do not know what to make of all this, only that I do not understand why. And just when I try to find the right words, Cassian appears to sit beside me. "Cassian," I say softly, not sure what to make of his knack for showing up when I need him. Small graces, small mercies.  

"He's yours?" Alan asks gently, anything to distract from our situation.  

"He's my..." I bite my lip, swallowing down the stone in my throat. "He's my friend."

Cassian looks up at me. ( _Kid.._ )

"It's true," I reply, more firmly. 

Alan goes out to check on the lamb, and I bury my face in Cassian's fur to hide my weakness, the overwhelming relief and confusion, and the misery of it all, because I don't understand why there are people who stop. It's not like people are so dear. I don't understand why Cassian cares, why he keeps stubbornly ensuring that no harm befalls me. I don't understand what has suddenly changed, that my hideous body is not the commons for anyone to take at will, but rather something to

Cassandra loved nothing more than having me undress myself as a prelude. He'd lean against the armrest of the chaise longue, its green silk a contrast against the deep reds of his loosely tied dressing gown. Dark tobacco staining his lips, his eyes alight. With the slightest gesture, the idle flicker of his finger, he'd motion for me to begin. I always knew where it would end, with the immobile angels on the ceiling, beautifully smiling in their golden casting because there was nothing left to them. Dread would leaden my fingers as I picked the buttons free, knowing that his eyes brightened at every one. He never hurried me, rather savoring the motionlessness that would periodically come over me as I forced myself take off another garment before him, another soft layer lying on the floor as still as a skinless deer, another pound of flesh just for him. That way there was only me to blame. My hands, my fault. 

There was no refusal in the end, just blank, abiding rage. 

Shame burns at my eyes, as I tremble and stumble over my own breath, clinging to Cassian, mute and useless. The tears come faster and faster, dampening his fur, and shame, _shame_ , **_shame._**   It thickens my throat, all my rage and horror and shame. 

Cassian sighs next to me. ( _I'm here, I'm here._ ) 

And he is. God only knows why. 

I give myself over to the stinging tears, until I am quite drained of everything, save for a bitter sorrow. Cassian stays still for the whole ordeal, periodically nudging me to comfort me in the only way he can. He is here, and although it does nothing to lessen the gulf of misery, it is a not insignificant balm to know that he stayed. My legs ache from their place on the weathered stone floor of the barn, bits of straw scattered around us, and I cautiously test the proposition of raising myself to my feet, one hand still on Cassian, unable to let go. A few silver flecks briefly burst into existence at this, only to suffer the fate of all stars—a sudden exodus. 

( _There, there, kid. I can't carry you home_.)

I laugh at his gruffness, steadying myself. 

Alan peeks into the barn, and I gesture for him to come in. It shouldn't have taken this long for him to examine a lamb, even with particular care, but I am begrudgingly thankful for his discretion. His sleeves still rolled to his forearm, exposing his lovely sun-freckled skin, a bit of stray straw clinging to his waistcoat, he rejoins me in the coolness of the stalls among the straw bales. He passes under the riding accoutrements, all hanging neatly on the wall where a footman has left them, past Cain's horse, Calotropis, who shifts a little in his stall, more vexed by all the motion than Alan.  

Then, he is there again, searching my face for any answer. 

"It's not you," I say abruptly. 

His shoulders slacken in relief. "I thought I had offended you somehow." 

I shake my head. My mouth does not seem to work properly, but I try anyway. "I... _want_ you, but..." _Want_ stings me: it's a dangerous confession, but also one of powerlessness, dependency. I want him, and that wanting is fruitless if he does not return it. "But not like this." He gives me a confused, almost hurt glance, and I continue. "I want you as Jonathan wanted David, but..."  There are places on me I do not want you to see, do not want anyone, save Cain, to see. 

"I will not use you badly," he says softly in a voice that reminds me of the gentle rush of water braiding itself over smoothed stones as it travels further down the river. His hand trails in my hair, brushing the strands back.

I suppose I am more transparent, than I'd prefer to be, then. Annoyed by myself, yet strangely emboldened now that he has voiced the ghost that has followed us here, I nod. "There's an unsightly scar on my back that I do not want you to see. From horseback riding." My feigned nonchalance rings hollow in my ears, but I cannot bear to tell him the truth. And yet, I am not entirely enough of a fool to believe that he believes me. I know the rumors about this place: that for all his charm, his graces, his wit, _Earl Hargreaves_ had a touch of the devil inside him. That's why Cain has been so perennially popular; they all want to see for themselves if the son resembles the father, if there is any truth to the rumors. 

"I don't have to see it," he replies, slowly. "Not if you don't want me to." And with that, we accept this lie between us, because in this lie, he knows that the truth is far worse than just a horseback accident. The lie is, in itself, a confession of what I desperately wish it could be instead.   

I lean in for a kiss, this one more gentle than before, a breathless, searching kiss accompanied by his hands on my face. 

"I will not use you badly," he says again, like a promise, one I wish I could believe. Then, he surveys me, weighing my red-eyed exhaustion with my pride. "Lord Hargreaves will never forgive me if I let you miss luncheon." He pauses. "You can take my arm if you feel faint," he offers finally. 

And as we walk back together, Cassian striding along, I contemplate reaching for it. 

* * *

Luncheon is a simple offering of cold ham, lemon pudding, bread, cheese, blackberries, and a light salad. We settle in easily, and if Neil finds anything unusual about us, he doesn’t say. Instead, we are treated to the latest results of Cain’s purchases, namely a few more poisonous plants for the garden. Mary listens, rapt, as he details his journey to one of the plant nurseries in London: this time, it's _datura metel_ , shipped from South America, its pale mauve flowers striking against its dark green leaves.  

 Neil takes on a more and more distant look as Cain expounds on the _wonders_ of the poison that can be extracted from _datura_ , namely that it's rumored to be able to provoke a supernatural experience, and when a lull in the conversation appears, he immediately changes the subject. "How's the lamb?" he asks. 

"She's well for the time being," I say, picking at the serving of lemon pudding that the footman insisted on. I pause. "I just find it unfair that I must return her to a life of servitude. She and all the rest of the farm animals deserve freedom, as God intended."

Mary leans forward over a forkful of berries, her eyes darting around the table. 

"So when do we burn down McGregor's farmhouse?" A mischievous grin lights up Cain's face.

"We don't," Neil interrupts, alarmed. 

That doesn't deter Cain in the slightest. "What about the guillotine, Uncle? Jezabel needs this farmer to be made an example of."

"We are not Continental," Neil replies, exasperated. "We do things differently here."

Cain shrugs playfully at me. "I tried. Think of me kindly when the animal proletariat rise up."

I roll my eyes. "Enough with the Engels." I pause, aware Alan's gaze is on me now. "I don't want to participate in a system that perpetuates the cruelty of animal farming. God might have granted man dominion, that is true, but He also promised an end to the natural order of predator and prey,  when 'the wolf and the lamb shall feed together, and the lion shall eat straw like the bullock: and dust shall be the serpent's meat. They shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain, said the Lord.'" I wait a moment. "If this is God's intended plan for there to be an end to flesh-eating, then should we not be obeying His vision as best we can?"

Neil's eyebrows do not return to their usual place. "I'm not certain Cornwall is ready for that sort of thought," he says stiffly, though not unkindly. "We can ask Mr. Williams if he'd be willing to part with your little friend if she means that much to you."

"It's not just her," I say. "It's every animal in England who's denied their freedom."

Neil sighs a little. "You were never going to be easy, were you?" But instead of in scorn, the deep lines around his eyes wrinkle in tenderness, as if this stubbornness is endearing. "Then, you must learn as much as you can." 

I watch him warily, waiting for him to tell me that my dream is foolish, or impossible, or absurd, or naive, but he merely continues on with his meal, and I return to mine, my heart strangely lightening. 

* * *

I have just finished changing into my dressing gown for my mid-afternoon rest, a ritual more or less insisted on by Rumsfeld, lest my  _unfortunate condition_ worsen, when there's a knock at my door. It's Alan.

"I don't think this is the sort of rest Neil wants me to have," I say, not displeased by his presence. 

Alan smiles, closing the door. "He can rest easy, then." He sits beside me on the bed, marveling at the interior of the room. "Did you mean what you said there? At luncheon?"

"Yes," I reply, a touch haughtily.

"Do you think unkindly of me, then?" he asks, slightly hurt.

I pause, before shaking my head. "Not you." Even if he is a person. But I can feel something fading between us, and something ugly rises in me at this. My heart thundering, I take his hand and slide it up along my bare thigh, under the silk, watching for his reaction. It's half desperation, half desire. It's an awkward seduction, but he swallows all the same.

"Do you truly want this?" he asks. 

"Yes," I reply, meaning it too.

Cupping my face, he pulls us into a kiss; my fingers stray to the silver buttons of his waistcoat. Grinning, he disrobes, and I help him, shucking off his clothes one by one, until I have uncovered his nakedness.  

"Here is my garment for you," he says softly, putting the smooth linen of his shirt into my hands. "My soul mightn't ever be knit to yours, but I love you all the same." There's a mangled, rough line of sliver across the length of his side, and I close my eyes at this, unable to look at him in his vulnerable generosity, his foolishness. Perhaps there is a measure of grace in a candle, after all.  

I know now why he's fumbling at me. 

I run a hand over the scar, before raising my eyes at him for a questioning glance. He shakes his head, _not now_ , and instead of pressing on with this newfound knowledge, I lower my hand to that delightful spot between his legs, never taking my gaze away from his. His organ flushes and stiffens under my touch as I stroke the shaft, idly spread the wetness accumulating on the head. He moves his hips under my touch, breathing heavily. 

"Jezabel," he manages, directing me where to stroke, and I relish my power over him, fully aware that my dressing gown is still firmly tied. I consider putting that organ to my lips, but a tremor of terror comes over me at that. Something ugly in me wills me to do so, because I deserve to hurt, because I need to know it still hurts, but Alan notices my hesitation. 

He lays a hand on mine. "Should we stop?"

I hesitate, struck by this, this option I didn't know I had. Then, low desire at the sight of him so undone coils within me, and I wonder if desire can ever cease to co-exist with pain. "No," I say at last, and with that, I resume my caresses, although he applies some of his own to me, urging me on with soft words as if I am made of glass. I pull away from his caresses that edge underneath my dressing gown. "You first," I tease to hide my fears that I do not know how to handle my own wildfire of desire. Perhaps, once he's finished, he'll simply forget. 

It's easy to bring him to a groaning finish, spilling in my hand, and though I do not wish to harm him, I feel no love in the act, only vague triumph in my ability. It's the same as with every man who is not Cain. But still, I do not want to harm him, and Cain would call that something, insufferable as he is.

The weight on the bed shifts, and to my surprise, Alan turns to me. "What about you?"

I can't claim to understand this push-pull of desire in me, that fears it and wants it all the same, that finds him attractive and dull in turn, but still with my hand on his, he unties the sash of the dressing gown, exposing my body to the coolness of the room. 

"It's not the same as yours," I say. My scar is not a marker of misplaced hatred. At his questioning glance, I continue. "It's from a surgery, when I was very small." And it's grown with me, like all things. 

Surprise blinks across his face at the notion of living through an abdominal surgery, much less one from almost twenty years ago. 

"Can I?" he asks, with a playful grin, eyes darting to his newfound interest. I nod, and then his mouth trails lower, teasing what has already begun to stir there from his caresses, before helping me to rest on the edge of the bed. Between my legs, he starts a slow, languid desire, and I, in turn, experiment with the angle of it all, shifting my hips under his attention, finding a delightful ache at one angle. 

I call for him, as I let my body begin to move in time with him, towards the source of that wet warmth. My breathing becomes uneven as I reach to caress his head, fumbling for something to hold as my body obeys God's original edict in its own way. Noticing this, Alan presses a hand against my hips to push away.  

"Let me know when you're almost there," he says, a bit breathless. "I never cared much for swallowing."

"Yes," I reply, terribly warm and lightheaded from the whole thing. A thought occurs to me of what would make a pleasant addition, and I am half shocked at how easily my desire makes itself known. "Would you—can you—" I fumble for his hand, my heart beating furiously in its heightened state, and stroke his finger. "Just one."

 He obliges, finding the oil and applying it gently; he strokes along my perineum, as I lie on my back, and I shift my hips to better guide it inside, and although a muted terror resurfaces, I ignore it. When his finger slips in, I groan at its firm, pleasant presence. 

"Yes, there," I manage, closing my eyes in the sudden pleasure of being penetrated. 

"What about here?" Alan curls his finger playfully, searching for those nerves.

"Alan!" I scold, though not so seriously.

He chuckles in response, before stilling his finger inside me, as I need it, and returns to that now achingly stiff fixation, adding his other hand for better friction. I rock into his hand and mouth, as the tension builds, the overwhelming need deepens. 

"Alan," I groan, the tightness unbearable now. 

I cannot, I cannot—the warm wetness is gone now, he's wiping his mouth with his wrist—he leans over me, stroking me with a firm grasp—I move in time with him, joining his rhythm, and the tension breaks in a heady, throbbing rush. 

I lie there on my back, slowly regaining my bearings as the lightness fades sweetly. He whispers something gentle to me, stroking my face, before the loudness of water falling and coiling into the basin informs me that he's washing up. Then, he returns to help me clean up, and I return, slowly, to the cool wetness of the washcloth dragged against my skin, and I return to wrap my arms around him and his body, to press my body against his, as we lie together in the soft afternoon light cascading through the lace patterns of the curtains. 

We lie there, under the twisting sheets, aware that this has come to its end, a sweet end, but an ending, nonetheless. And yet, I bear him no ill will, I do not desire his end, and instead it is in a soft covenant that I kiss his hand again, for David had many more loves after Jonathan, and although I am afraid, still afraid, that his hand might be turned against me, in this moment there is only ceaseless thrum of life that is God's curse and His forgiveness. Again and again, that we might yet make some grace in this ugly world despoiled by man. But if it is despoiled by man, then perhaps by man, it must be restored.  

I suppose Father would think me foolish and mad, but he has always thought that, and perhaps God _does_ see the fall of a sparrow, after all. And yet, for every fallen sparrow, there is another newly born, yet unaware of the knowledge of death, and thus, life. My fingers trace along the tendons of Alan's body, aware that all this will eventually be dust, and as I close my eyes, pained, I hear them again, as they were in the bluebell fields, their fingers sticky from plucking cherries on the way there. 

_It's alright, it's alright, it's alright—_

I smile at the memory of my sisters, thinking of how excited they'll be to hear about Alan, if Mary hasn't told them first. Perhaps, he won't mind meeting them, even if he won't warm my bed forever. If Cassian was my first friend, perhaps he can be my second. I could use a man with his skills in my sanctuary. How terrifying; Father would never approve. I turn over in Alan's arms to face him, and he stirs in response, moving his body to accommodate me.

"Alan," I say, resting my head on his arm, curled into him. "Would you like to meet my sisters?" 

The sparrows gossip on the window ledge in perfect harmony. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really liked putting in the Biblical allusions to Jonathan and David in here. I was not quite sure how to end this small segment; I wanted the boys to have some happiness, but also to not downplay any of it. So, in the end, I decided that there should be some tender, joyful sex, because it's a bit overdue, quite frankly. It's not one of those relationships that lasts forever. It's a brief but sweet in a way that those things can be. A bit of joy, even if neither one is really cut out for long-term relationships.
> 
> If anyone's wondering why the heck the candle imagery suddenly popped up, that's because it's a textual reference to one of Blanche DuBois's monologue in A Streetcar Named Desire about her dead, gay husband. It's amazing, and I highly recommend it. Actually, that's who Alan is named after, so now you know I'm trash for Tennessee Williams. 
> 
> Calotropis is the name of a poisonous flower, because Cain.
> 
> Thank you for reading this strange, plotless, and utterly amorphous piece. I don't know what any of this was, but thank you for reading. And a massive shout-out to everyone who's commented and let me know what they thought. Much love to Syri, Kitart, haeralis, and serpentinerose, as well as to Uhtref_of_Gettenberg and the quiet readers. I'm deeply honored that anyone read this, and thank you for taking the time to leave a kudos or a comment. Thank you for reading!


End file.
